


Surely, This is Just a Coincidence...

by Jacewinchester



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 10:36:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18602794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jacewinchester/pseuds/Jacewinchester
Summary: Sydney was expecting this to be the same as any other construction job he'd worked, but strange stuff starts to happen after he digs up a mysterious box.





	Surely, This is Just a Coincidence...

“Where is he?” I ask out loud, becoming impatient as I wait for Alex to arrive. He was supposed to be here to work on this dig for the new building they’re putting in here, and he was supposed to bring one of the excavators. Without him there’s no way this will be finished by tomorrow. Now, instead of getting started like everyone else, I’m forced to stand here awkwardly, watching everyone else get started, and hoping he shows up. 

He arrives twenty minutes late, but makes no mention of it, acting like he’s done nothing wrong. That son of a bitch. “You ready to get started, or what?” He asks, as if I’m the one we’ve been waiting on. I roll my eyes but say nothing as he uses the excavator to start digging up the lot, and I stand careful watch to make sure he doesn’t hit anything solid, like a rock. 

The job begins to become monotonous as he digs up the ground, and deposits the dirt into a bigger truck that will take it to a dump site. This continues until I see something buried in the dirt. “Hold up!” I yell, loud enough to be sure Alex hears me over the noise of the truck. 

He stops, and climbs out of the truck as I take a shovel, and begin to dig up the object manually. 

“What is it?” Alex calls over as I pull the object out of the ground. 

“Some sort of wooden box,” I say, holding it up to show him. 

“Are you fucking with me?” He asks, eyebrows furrowed. 

“No, look,” I say, extending the box towards him a bit. 

“Sydney, you’re not holding anything,” Alex says, a hint of annoyance in his voice. 

“Whatever, fuck you,” I say, quickly growing tired of his antics. “I’m going to put this in my truck”. 

 

* * * 

 

That night when I get home, I set the wooden box down on the coffee table in the living room, and settle down on my old, beat up couch. Then, I remove the box’s lid. Inside, there’s an assortment of objects. 

There’s an old book, leather-bound, with yellowing pages. I flip the book over, and then examine the pages, eyebrows furrowed. The text inside is completely hand-written in a language I don’t understand. The next object I pull out is a stone that fits perfectly in the palm of my hand. It’s the color of tarnished silver, and there are strange marks carved into its otherwise smooth surface. Next, I find an old key with scratch marks all over it, most likely because it was carried around, and used frequently in the past. After that I find a pair of glasses. The lenses, and frame are both completely intact, bearing not a single scratch, even after spending who knows how long buried in that box. There’s also a necklace that has an emerald green pendant on a long, silver chain. 

At the very bottom of the box, is an envelope, closed with a wax seal. I pull it out, and flip it over, surprised to see that my name is printed on the back of it. Surely, this is just a coincidence, but still, it’s a strange one. I open the envelope, and find a note inside. The note consists of only two words: “call me”, but there’s no phone number. 

I set the note down, and pick up the object that I’ve determined is the most interesting, the book. I pull out my phone, hoping I can use it to translate some of the text from the book, but when I slide the lock screen open, I find myself at the dial screen with a phone number already selected: 266-334-6387. 

I stare down at the number for a second, wondering what to do. Surely, I just pocket dialed it somehow. That has to be it, but then I think on it for a second. I find an envelope on the bottom of a box full of all these weird ass objects that has my name on it. Then I find that note inside that says “call me” with no phone number, and then I open my phone, and there just happens to be a phone number pulled up. And surely this is just a coincidence, but maybe…. 

Somehow, that maybe must be enough because before I even make a conscious decision, my finger presses the call button, and I hold the device up to my ear. The phone rings once, twice. My palms begin to sweat. What am I even expecting to come of this? Three, four. What am I thinking? This number probably belongs to some lady on the other side of the country who’s wondering why she’s getting a call from an unknown number. Five, six. Maybe I should just hang up. This was a stupid thing to do. Seven, eight. 

The call goes to voicemail, but instead of hearing an electronic voice saying “You have reached the voicemail box of…” I hear a gruff, almost familiar, male voice that says, “Come meet me. Midnight”, and then the line goes silent. They didn’t even give me an address. 

I hang up the phone, but, to my surprise, it doesn’t go back to my home screen. Instead, my GPS is pulled up with an address already selected. The address is in an old industrial district a couple towns over. It’s barely used anymore, and is mostly used by squatters as overnight shelter. It has a reputation for being dangerous at night. 

I weigh the options in my head. If I go, there’s about a seventy-five percent chance that I get robbed, or worse, but I might figure out what the deal is with the note, and that creepy phone call. If I don’t go, I’m safe, but I might never find out what’s going on here. I’m not sure my curious mind can deal with the not knowing. I guess the decision’s made. 

* * * 

As I near the address the GPS gave me, I notice that the streets are completely abandoned. There’s not a single person anywhere in sight. It’s midnight, I remind myself. That’s to be expected. Stop trying to make this seem creepier than it is. Man up. 

I park outside of the building that the map directs me too, and then I turn off the truck, kill the headlights, and get out, making sure to lock the doors. In this neighborhood, it wouldn’t surprise me if someone tried to break into my car. 

I begin to circle the building, looking for an entrance. There’re no doors, or windows. Not that I can see, anyway. Maybe I’m just supposed to wait outside? I check the time. Maybe I’m early. 12:02 AM. So much for that. 

My phone dings with a text from an unknown number. I open it to find just three words: Use the objects. 

Rolling my eyes, I return to my truck, and grab the box of objects from the bed of my truck. What the hell do they mean “use the objects”? Use them how? I groan in frustration, ready to throw the box to the ground, and smash it to bits, but I resist the urge, and try to focus. I look over the objects again. A book, a key, a pair of glasses, a strange stone, and a necklace. I try putting on the necklace. As soon as I do, it begins to glow with a weird, green light. Okay, that’s strange, but I don’t see how it’s helpful. 

I try the glasses next, unsure as to what I’m expecting to happen. I have perfect vision, after all. Maybe not too perfect, I correct myself because after I put them on, I see a door appear on the building, clear as day. I take the glasses off, and the door disappears. Then, I put them back on, and I can see the door once again. Maybe it’s time for a trip to the optometrist. 

Trying to shake off the strange feeling that these objects are giving me, I approach the door. Something just seems off. I’m not sure what it is, and I can’t narrow down the feeling, but something is telling me I should run in the opposite direction. Now. 

Instead, I tug on the door handle, but it’s locked. This one seems like an easy fix. I pull the key from my pocket, and slide it into the key hole, and turn it. I successfully push the door open, and step inside. I squint to see in the dim lighting of the building. The smell of mold and mildew hits my nose, and there’s a chill in the area. It’s like I just stepped into the basement of an old, abandoned house. 

“Sydney, so glad you could join me,” a familiar voice says. 

I squint across the room as the figure comes into view. “Mr. McAllister?” I say, though it comes out as more of a question, as my boss, the owner of the construction company comes into view, wearing his usual suit. “What are we doing here?” 

“A fair question,” he comments, not answering it. He busies himself with adjusting the cuffs of his suit. “Are you enjoying the box of magic items I sent you? 

I’m not sure which statement puzzles me more. The fact that he called the items magic, or the fact that he sent them? When did he hide the box there, and how did he know I would find them, and not someone else? I want to ask all these questions, but one of them seems to rise above the others. “Magic?” 

“Yes, right, sorry. You’re new to this. Magic items. Items that are spelled or enchanted in some way to serve a specific purpose. Your glasses, for example, allow you to see things that are cloaked by magic,” Mr. McAllister explains. 

I nod slowly. “Right,” I say, drawing the word out. “And I suppose this is a spell book?” My voice is dripping sarcasm as I hold up the book I found in the box. 

“Very good,” he says, completely serious. 

Is this guy for real? “Okay, what about the other objects?” I ask. 

He nods. “The stone amplifies a warlock’s power,” he says. 

“And the key?” 

Mr. McAllister laughs. “The key just opens the door”. 

“What about the necklace?” 

His expression darkens. “The necklace glows in the presence of dark magic,” he says. 

I look down at the necklace, holding the glowing pendant between my fingers. My hands tremble slightly. “Then why is it-” 

Mr. McAllister flicks his wrist, and I’m thrown back against a wall before I can finish my sentence. “Forgive me,” he says, “but I simply cannot have the prophecy fulfilled. I have plans, after all, and I cannot let you get in my way”. 

“What prophecy? What plan?” I ask. My whole body hurts. I feel like I just got hit by a bus, and the room appears to be spinning in circles. I try to stand, but my body feels like it’s glued to the floor. 

“It’s not personal,” Mr. McAllister says, “but I see no point in explaining my plan to a dead man”. He crouches down in front of me so we’re at eye level. “You were a good employee, Sydney. I truly am sorry”. 

There’s a flash of silver, and then I feel a sharp pain in my chest, looking down to see a knife lodged in my heart, and blood pouring from the wound. I can feel the life draining from my body with the blood. I begin to feel cold, and weak. The last thing I see is Mr. McAllister standing over me, a solemn look in his eye, and then there is nothing at all.


End file.
